


Even Your Honey Dew

by objectlesson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, First Time, Fluff, High School, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Harry, Omega Louis, Omega/Omega, Romance, Sexuality Crisis, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 07:19:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16280126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: It probably says something about Harry that he’s so obsessed with another omega’s arse.





	Even Your Honey Dew

**Author's Note:**

> Another o/o fic because I love them! I know a lot of wlw don't enjoy reading girl direction because it hits too close to home, but I've had a number of wlw tell me that my last o/o fic provided them with something similar, an exploration of the same sort of cognitions and experiences wlw might experience in our universe, addressed through a parallel in the ABO verse. I thought about that a lot while writing this one in particular. 
> 
> Anyway, I had a blast writing this, hope you all enjoy! Thank you as always to Jen for betaing it.

_We both know that it’s not fashionable to love me_  
But you don’t go 'cause truly there’s nobody for you but me  
We could cruise to the blues  
Wilshire Boulevard if we choose  
Or whatever you want to do  
We make the rules 

Lana Del Rey- Honeymoon

—-

Louis’s standing in the queue at the cinema snack stand, thumbing through his wallet with his hip thrown out to one side, and Harry’s fucking _drooling._ The other lads are filling their cups with every imaginable fizzy drink flavour on offer, tossing popcorn at each other and talking utter shite, and Harry _really_ should join them instead of standing here awkwardly staring at Louis Tomlinson’s plump thighs in his red chinos, but he can’t make himself move. He can’t even blink. He’s fucking hypnotized, mouth very nearly _watering_ as Louis shifts his weight, leans over the counter, and orders Maltesers and a Yorkie bar, please and thank you, pushing his bum out all the while. 

His pants are _maddeningly_ tight, braces pulling the red denim snugly over the swell of his arse, and really, it isn’t Harry’s _fault_ that he’s about three seconds away from getting slick in public. Louis’s the sexiest, fittest boy he’s ever seen, and he hardly ever wears proper jeans, but they came all the way to London to this posh superhero film premiere, so he ditched his usual soft, loose joggers for these fitted monstrosities, and Harry…isn’t prepared. He’s on his deathbed. He _knows_ that he’s acting weird and quiet and flustered, but he’s helplessly enraptured by Louis’s effortless motion, the delicate way he pushes his fringe out of his eyes, the deep, filthy dip in his back that even further accentuates how round and pert his bum is. 

Harry forces himself to mechanically fill his cup, cheeks burning as he steals glances. It’s just too…it’s just so _good_. He wants to get on his knees behind Louis and part his cheeks, bury his face there, steal a taste or two, a lifetime’s worth. He wants to squeeze those cheeks in his hands, maul them, spread them apart, push them together again. He wants to do a lot of things he shouldn’t want to do at all. 

It probably says something about Harry that he’s so obsessed with another omega’s arse. 

He’s not really sure _what_ , though. Like, obviously he’s some sort of freak. Or broken. It’s such a fucking problem, actually. Like, he doesn't even care about superhero movies. He cares zero percent. He has barely the foggiest understanding of this film they’re seeing tonight, and that’s only because Zayn and Liam have been excitedly arguing over dumb theories ever since the petrol station stop in Croydon, and Harry can barely speak in Louis’s presence, so he was doomed to listen. He doesn’t give a single shit about this movie, but he eagerly paid twenty quid for a ticket just so he could sit in Louis’s car and hang out with him for a night and ogle his perfect bum in his stupid red trousers, even though literally _nothing_ could ever come from having a huge crush on another omega. It’s useless, and he _knows_ they’ll never end up together, but he still accepts Louis’s invites to things that he doesn’t actually like _just_ to be close to him. He’s absolutely out of control. 

Harry _used_ to think his weird obsession with Louis was because he wanted to _be_ him, not have his biologically impossible babies. After all, Harry was only sixteen when they met, and Louis, a whole two glamourous years older, was the sort of omega that Harry _instantly_ recognized he could never be: the ideal sort, the sort that every alpha wanted to be mated to. 

Everything Harry struggles at, Louis does with preternatural grace. He’s coy and delicate, and he moves like a fucking magical woodland nymph seductress, all crystal blue eyes and high cheekbones and soft wrists and springy step. He makes playing _footie_ look like ballet or something, and he has the _perfect_ body, slight but strong and supple all at once, like a willow tree in the wind. It’s infuriating because Harry is just the opposite, an awkward-as-fuck omega who’s too tall and gangly, forever tripping over his own feet because he might be the clumsiest human alive. To sixteen-year-old Harry, Louis embodied the type of coquettish charm that he’d been told he’d have to perfect without coming across as simpering or weak. If omegas wanted to end up mated to a decent alpha, they _had_ to balance these traits, and Louis was the epitome of balance. Soft and sharp at the same time, like a dagger wrapped gently in silk. This was why Harry was totally obsessed with him when they met, why he attached himself to him, tried to emulate him, followed him around school during lunch, laughed way too frequently and too loudly at all of his jokes, like an absolute git. 

That was a whole year ago, but in the last six months or so, it’s become increasingly clear to Harry that there’s a _lot_ more than admiration going on where Louis’s concerned. First off, most guys probably don’t have detailed, scorchingly hot sex dreams about their heroes _._ It takes Harry only a few instances of waking up shaky and breathless, his slick drenching the crease of his arse to figure out that he _wants_ Louis more than he wants to _be_ him, and it’s only gotten more obvious to him since then. And it’s not just sex dreams, it’s conscious, waking sex _fantasies,_ and even worse, soppy married-with-kids fantasies, traveling-the-world _-_ togetherfantasies, lying-side-by-side-holding-hands-and-staring-dreamily-into-each-other’s-eyes fantasies. It’s a proper crush _,_ where he imagines this whole _future_ with Louis Tomlinson, a future he could never have because omegas simply don't _have_ futures together. 

He thought, for a bit, that he might be sexually frustrated and projecting his needy teenage desire to be loved onto Louis, who was his actual friend at this point, but he’s _tried_ to date alphas like he’s supposed to, and while it’s exciting every now and again, mostly it’s just terrifying and awful. He’s usually nervous and counting down the minutes until it's over, and the few times that he’s let alphas snog him after awkward dates, they’ve gotten handsy and pushy. Instead of his body doing what it was _supposed_ to do in such a situation, he totally shut down and freaked out and made excuses for why he had to go, like, immediately. So far, every attempt to be a normal omega has failed miserably, but his crush on Louis? His _unnatural_ obsession with his arse? Still going strong. 

It’s really annoying. Filling his cup _only_ with Pepsi because he’s not a lawless yob like his friends, Harry sighs as Louis appears next to him, his hands overflowing with sweets, eyes twinkling like some sort of glorious fairy-tale prince. “You’re gonna have to give us a hand with these, Hazza,” he announces, pressing his tongue into the side of his cheek in a way that makes Harry’s stomach clench predictably. “I think I went overboard.” 

“Niall can probably help you,” he assures him, cautious as Louis clumsily transfers the sweets to a single hand so that he can throw his other arm around Harry’s shoulder, jostling him closer. This is another tragic layer to the whole mess: it’s totally socially acceptable for omegas to be cuddly and physically affectionate with each other without it meaning anything, and Louis’s a particularly cuddly, affectionate omega. It makes Harry feel awful because Louis probably thinks that he’s just having a snuggle with a mate, but meanwhile, Harry’s heart is about to explode. Harry _loves_ it when Louis touches him, _longs_ for it so desperately that he feels magnetized to him, but when the touch actually happens, it _aches_ because it isn’t the same for him as it is for Louis. Like, right now, he’s having all sorts of panicked, longing, dirty thoughts, whereas it’s just an innocent arm ‘round the shoulders to Louis. It’s awful, but Harry’s all of seventeen years old and hasn't quite figured out the art of self-preservation in the face of hormones, so he just…lets it happen, feeling guilty but not enough to pull away from the heat of Louis’s skin. 

They file into the very front of the dark theater because there are hardly any seats together anywhere else. Zayn and Liam are still arguing over superhero minutiae in feverish whispers, with Niall interjecting occasionally but mostly dicking around on his mobile while he steadily annihilates an entire bag of popcorn. Harry’s pleased to be sitting beside Louis, even though he knows that it’s a bad idea, but it’s not like he was planning on paying attention; he came all the way to London for _Louis’s company_ , not to see this dumb film. He tries to assure himself that there’s nothing bad or weird about wanting to be close to Louis all the time, as long as he doesn’t make it awkward and actually _do_ anything about it. 

The trailers start, and Louis immediately lifts the armrests between their seats and squirms closer. “It’s chilly, c’mere,” he whispers, holding his arm out so that Harry has room to sidle up against him. “Share my snacks.” 

Harry does what he's told because he's absolutely helpless when it comes to Louis. He tries not to think about how solid Louis’s body feels, how warm, how much he’d like to wrap his arms around the tuck of his waist and pull him close, rub his cheek against the scoop-neck white T-shirt he’s wearing, but, of course, he ends up thinking about it anyway because he’s a total disaster. 

At some point, Louis slides his braces down over his shoulders to make himself more comfortable, and they pool in his lap, prompting Harry to spend a whole ten-minute-long explosion scene staring at Louis instead of the screen, imagining doing all sorts of terrible things with those braces. They would look so good tied around Louis’s wrists or on his bare chest or shoved into Harry’s own mouth or—

His brain abruptly stops working because Louis shifts closer, winding his arm around Harry’s shoulders like it’s no big deal (and it probably isn’t a big deal for him because he’s not _fucking broken_ ) _._ Harry holds his breath, willing himself to relax, but it ends up being a fruitless endeavour because Louis gently cards his fingers through Harry’s hair, sifting them through the curls, nails razing against his scalp and making him shiver. 

It feels like heaven, and Harry sort of hopes a meteor crashes into this theater and kills them all so that he can die whilst being petted by Louis Tomlinson. He wants so badly to tilt into the touch, to soak it up and melt into the compact solidity of Louis's body, but he can’t actually _relax_ ;he's too nervous. Time passes differently when Louis touches him, it always does. Both slower and faster than reality, every second crawling by at an agonizing pace as whole _hours_ fly by, Harry lost in how _good_ it feels to be getting at least _some_ of what he wants. 

Before he even realizes it, the film’s half over, and he never thought he’d think this, but he sort of wants this stupid superhero plot to go on forever, just so Louis can keep playing with his hair, his touch gentle and trembly and careful. Harry’s so paralyzed that he can't even drink his Pepsi. 

He tries not to think too hard about it, tries not to wonder what it means. It’s not unusual for them to touch like this, and Louis’s always mussing his curls or tugging at the especially corkscrew-shaped ones to make them bounce, but this feels…different. Something about it being in the dark, about the way both of their eyes are fixed on the screen, watching (or not) the movie instead of teasing each other like they would usually do if they were touching like this. Then there’s the way that Louis’s thumb keeps brushing the back of Harry’s neck, a lingering, delicate, back-and-forth motion over Harry’s _skin_ before he drags his whole hand up into his hair again. It feels insanely intimate and insanely good, and Harry’s arms get all goose-pimply every single time. 

He’s trying so hard not to freak out, but then, mortifyingly, Harry starts to get wet.

He can feel it. The slippery, filthy sensation as he shifts, the building heat in his gut. He’ll start to forget about it, willing himself to just _ignore_ his traitorous body, but then Louis will gently rub over the topmost knob of his spine, and Harry’s stomach will drop all over again, he’ll feel more slick just _sluicing_ out of him, and, _god,_ it’s so embarrassing, he’s such an awful friend, getting off on something as innocent as having his _hair_ played with. 

It’s weird, though, because he’s not _entirely_ sure that it’s innocent. Like, he knows it is, it _must_ be, because Louis certainly isn’t _flirting_ with him, omegas don’t flirt with other omegas. Omegas like _Louis_ certainly don’t, anyway; they’re too busy being courted by every alpha in sight. Harry doesn’t _actually_ think that Louis’s coming on to him or anything, but there’s a tenderness to his touch that's _so_ fucking confusing. Like, if an alpha touched him this way, he’d _definitely_ read it differently. It feels intentional rather than idle, like Louis’s touch is loaded, is trying to tell him something, but Harry can’t for the life of him imagine what that something might be, especially coming from Louis. It doesn't make sense, so he’s probably imagining it. Inventing it out of pure want. 

It get worse, though. Every time he reaches into the bag of Maltesers, Louis does, too, and their hands touch, which would be mildly titillating on its own, but Louis keeps gigging and timing it so that their fingers inevitably brush against each other. He even grabs Harry's hand at one point, ghosting his palm over the back of it before letting him go, and Harry feels like he’s nearing genuine heart attack territory, but Louis has no fucking idea what he’s doing to him, he likely thinks that he’s just playing, that it’s meaningless teasing.

Harry’s so fucking turned on that it’s obscene. He needs to _do_ something about it, sneak off to the loo and wipe himself down, maybe splash cold water on his face or wank because apparently he’s a fucking heathen. He keeps putting it off until Louis’s hand slides down from where it’s playing in Harry’s hair to rest permanently on his neck, fingers idly tracing all over the side where his pulse is thundering, and, _god,_ Jesus _Christ,_ this has to stop before he, like, whimpers or starts humping the air or does something truly embarrassing. “Gotta wee,” he announces quietly, standing up and shaking Louis’s hand off, skin crawling with want as he sidesteps past the other three boys who are totally oblivious to everything that’s happening. 

The light in the corridor seemed dim earlier in the evening, but it’s harsh in comparison now, and he squints blearily as he flat-out _runs_ to the loo, totally ashamed of himself, of the way that he's tenting his jeans and slicking up his pants like some sort of _animal._ God. He pushes into the accessible toilet cubicle for privacy, panting as he makes a beeline for the mirror over the sink so that he can stare at himself. He’s half-sure that he’s a mutant, that the whole _world_ can tell how much he wants to fuck his omega friend, how physically altered he is. 

But aside from his cheeks looking flushed and his pupils being blown wide, he doesn’t look observably different. He’s the same spotty teenager, hunched shoulders too broad to pull off delicacy, cupid’s-bow lips the most traditionally omega feature on his whole face, though their impact is dampened somewhat by the fact that his mouth seems too huge to be proportionate, too exaggerated to actually be pretty. It’s frustrating. He doesn’t look the way he feels like he should look, he’s not sharp and angled the way that Louis is, but then his softness doesn’t seem right, either. He just looks weird and in-betweenish to himself, like he’s not a good omega, he’s not _anything._ He's an omega who likes _another_ omega, whatever that is. Some undefined freak of nature, doomed to exist in liminal spaces for the rest of his life, pretending to be normal, pretending to enjoy the way that alphas smell because it’s, like, his destiny or something. 

He’s about to unbutton his jeans and assess the whole slick situation when the cubicle door clicks open, and he realizes in his haste that he _totally_ forgot to lock it. He’s so startled that he doesn’t even have time to yell out that it’s occupied before _Louis,_ Louis Tomlinson, with his perfect bum and his braces still off his shoulders and dangling around his thighs like Harry’s dirtiest dreams come true, pushes inside. 

“Hi,” he says, like it’s normal for him to be in here, inside an _accessible_ toilet cubicle in the middle of a film he drove all the way to London to see. “Did you…did you leave the door unlocked for me? On purpose?” he asks, sounding a little uncertain, eyes plaintive and searching in this way that makes Harry’s breath catch. He did not leave the door unlocked for Louis, at least not consciously, and he cannot fucking imagine why Louis would think that, so he just stands there silently, eyes wide and mouth hanging open and pants uncomfortably wet where they’re still clinging to his bum. 

“Erm,” he forces out, heart pounding. “I...I, er.” 

Louis locks the door decidedly behind him, and all Harry’s words dry up in his throat. “C’mere,” Louis says quietly then, stepping closer, movement too hesitant and halting to really _read._ Harry has no fucking idea what’s going on, but Louis doesn’t really seem to either, so he’s not sure if he’s supposed to ask him or not, if he even has an answer to give. He’s magnetically drawn to Louis, though, forever orbiting him, and it’s, like, a _physics_ problem because no matter how much he tries to fight it, he still ends up standing inches away from Louis, heat radiating off his body, cheeks burning as he looks down at where their shoes are notched together, Louis’s Vans and his own stained Chucks. Harry doesn’t _want_ to make eye contact; looking Louis in the eye when he’s _not_ turned on and locked in a fucking toilet cubicle with him is dangerous, it might actually be _lethal_ under these circumstances. But Louis’s looking at him so _hard,_ eyes climbing his body in this calculating, careful way that makes Harry feel like he might die if he _doesn’t_ meet his gaze, too, so he forces himself to raise his gaze, and, _fuck,_ it’s like an electric shock. 

“Can I kiss you?” Louis whispers then, voice soft, hoarse, desperate, and maybe _that's_ why Harry must not be hearing him right. 

“What?” he asks, shaking his head, incapable of processing this. They…can’t. Louis can’t want to kiss him, there’s no _way,_ he must have _forgotten._ “I’m…I’m an omega,” he reminds him, swallowing thickly, heart choking him so much that he’s struggling to breathe. 

Something flickers over Louis’s face, something almost like disappointment. No, not almost, _more than._ He looks hurt, taken aback, _stricken,_ even, and he’s stumbling away from Harry as soon as he says it, cheeks getting so red so suddenly, which is surprising because Louis hardly _ever_ blushes in a visible way. “God, I’m so sorry...I thought, _shit,_ I thought you wanted to,” he explains, carding his hands through his own hair this time, making it stick up in back, and, _oh,_ Harry itches to smooth it back down, to touch him, to drag him back and tell him _of course I want to, I’ve wanted to for ages, I just didn't know we_ could, _that it was possible._ Instead, he just stands there, rooted to the tile floor, the whole of him trembling in time with his heartbeat. 

“I’ll leave, I didn’t realize—,” Louis cuts himself off, face in his hands like he doesn't know what to say, and Harry can’t stand to see him like this, only now processing the lick of heat that spread up through his body at the way Louis had said _c’mere,_ had asked him so _gently_ if he could kiss him, unlike every alpha who had ever pushed Harry up against a wall and snogged him because it was what was supposed to happen at the end of a date, not because he wanted to be snogged. 

“Louis,” he chokes out, taking a tentative step before something breaks in him; he feels flooded, messy, out of control as he steps into the feverish heat around Louis body and takes his wrists in his hands. “You can kiss me.” 

Louis looks at him warily, eyes narrowed, like he's trying to figure him out, if he’s messing with him or not. But Harry can’t handle being this close and smelling the Fanta and crisps on Louis’s breath, he feels like he’s going _mad,_ like he can’t wait another fucking second. “Please kiss me, _please_ , m’sorry I said that bit about being an omega, I just, I want it so badly,” he whispers, pressing their brows together, and Louis’s face crumples before he reaches out, cups Harry’s face between his palms, and crushes their lips together.

Fucking hell _,_ _this_ is why people talk about fireworks, this is why people talk about absolution, about wanting to kiss someone so much and for so long that you forget about everything else in the world. Harry never _got_ it before this moment, but he gets it now. Louis tastes like sugar and salt, his lips so soft, so careful as he presses a few chaste, lingering kisses to the corner of Harry’s mouth, his lower lip, each one slow and lingering and searching, like he’s asking a question with every tender drag. Harry _loves_ that he’s being asked, loves that each time they touch, it feels like Louis’s making _sure_ that they’re both in this, that he wants it. And Jesus, _fuck,_ does he want it. He wants more, he wants fucking _everything._ He smooths his palms up Louis’s chest to squeeze at his shoulders, his biceps, testing the give of his skin under his own palms as he returns kiss after kiss, eager and hot and needy. 

“Oh, god,” Louis whines, backing Harry into the door, thumbing along his jawline and holding him where he wants him. “This is alright, yeah?” 

It’s obviously more than alright, but words haven't even been invented for how good it is, so Harry just nods, experimentally smoothing his tongue out over the seam between Louis’s lips, making him gasp before he opens up, and then they’re _kissing_ kissing, Harry can _taste_ him. Everything is slick and messy, and he feels like he’s dreaming, but he doesn't even _care,_ he just hopes he doesn't wake up. He grinds his hard cock against the thigh that Louis’s pushing between his legs, panting into the hot-wet of his mouth, _astounded_ at how the same things that felt so scary with alphas could feel so remarkably _safe_ and _exciting_ and _mind-meltingly hot_ with Louis. “Lou,” he pants as Louis pulls away to suck in a messy breath, his lips looking swollen and shiny for a moment before he presses them to Harry's neck. “Can I touch your bum?” 

A laugh rumbles out against Harry’s throat, hot and gusty. “Yeah,” Louis replies, pushing his arse out into the air, like he’s begging for Harry's hands. “Can I touch you everywhere?” 

“ _Yes_ ,”Harry nods emphatically, mouth flooding with saliva at the thought of _finally,_ finally getting Louis’s delectable bum in his hands. He smooths his palms down the dip in Louis’s back, humping his thigh as he takes his first firm, self-indulgent squeeze. “Oh, god,” he croaks, bucking. “It’s so good.” 

Louis lets out a breathy, disbelieving laugh, nipping at Harry’s neck before rolling onto the balls of his feet to catch his lips again. Their kiss turns filthy as Harry mauls him, pushing his hands greedily under the tight waistband of his chinos to grip him through his pants, squeeze his cheeks, push them together, pull them apart. Louis whines into his mouth, their teeth clacking together, and suddenly he’s fucking Harry’s mouth with his tongue, he’s making him suck it, he’s biting his lips, there’s spit on their chins, and Harry _knows_ this isn't technically sex, but he _feels_ like it is, he feels like they’re _fucking_ against this loo door, and he’s never had anything better happen to him in his whole life. 

Louis’s pants are damp, particularly where they were wedged in his crack, everything hot and humid, and, _Jesus,_ he didn’t know that he could make another omega wet like this. Louis moves his palm down between their grinding bodies so that he can cup Harry’s cock through his jeans, squeezing it as he pushes his arse into his hands, and, _fuck,_ okay, maybe this _is_ sex. Harry doesn't feel like he’s that far away from coming, not with the friction, not with Louis’s bum in his hands, not with the wet, hungry way that they’re snogging. “Lou, m’gonna…I’ll come if we keep up like this,” he admits, letting his head fall back, giving Louis access to more skin to affix his sharp, sucking mouth to.

“Want to come now? Or do you want to go to the car? We can…we can do more there. This movie’s probably another hour or so long...I can text the boys to leave us alone when it’s finished,” Louis rambles breathlessly, gasping as Harry experimentally pushes his fingers into the crease of his arse, stunned by the heat, the heady realization that nothing but a thin, wet layer of cotton is all that’s keeping his fingers from Louis’s slippery hole. 

“Yes, course I do,” he whimpers, squeezing Louis’s bum again, wrists burning from chafing against his waistband. “Want to so badly.” 

“Ugh, right, okay,” Louis slurs, pulling away reluctantly. Harry’s hands feel sad and empty as they slide from Louis’s chinos, but the promise of _we can do more there_ echoes in his head, makes him shiver all over. He’s not sure what more Louis is imagining, but he’s there for it. He wants every single thing. 

Under the harsh, fluorescent glow of the overhead lights, Harry notices how flushed Louis is, how trembly his hands are as he smooths his hair, breath laboured. He’s so fucking fit that Harry wants to just lean here, slumped against the wall, and _stare_ at him, at his golden skin, his shiny hair, his eyes so blue and crinkled at the corners as he squints. Harry’s _reeling,_ can’t even fully comprehend that he got to _touch_ Louis, that he’s gonna get to _touch him again_ in the privacy of the back seat of _car,_ that they’re about to have another heated snogging session _._ It’s so unbelievably exciting that he’s absolutely buzzing as they sneak out the loo and through the mostly empty theater lobby, trying not to look too guilty. 

_I touched Louis Tomlinson’s bum_ , he thinks, mind hazy, cock achingly hard in his jeans and rubbing uncomfortably against his Y-fronts with every step. _I felt his slick through his pants, I_ made _him slick._

They walk in tense silence, and he’s dizzy by the time they make it to the carpark, insides knotted up because he’s half-convinced himself that he made up this whole scenario because, like…omegas don’t _do_ this together, do they? 

Louis keeps staring at his lips instead of at which button to push to unlock the car door, so maybe they _do._ Louis’s the proof, Louis looking as distracted and giddy and turned on as Harry feels, repeatedly unlocking the boot until he curses and finally gets the door open, tearing his gaze away from Harry long enough to toss a book bag and some packets of crisps onto the floor before collapsing into the back seat, rolling onto his back and lying there propped up on his elbows, knees bent and parted. He looks like a fucking dream, and Harry can hardly breathe. “C’mere,” Louis says again, voice soft and high and full of breath, and _yeah,_ Harry could get used to being told to come to Louis. 

He clambers in on top of him since there’s no room for him anywhere else. “Like this?” he asks, shuddering as Louis trails his hands over his shoulders, through his hair, down either side of his neck, where he surely must be able to feel how hard his pulse is pounding. 

“Fuck...yeah. Close the door behind you,” Louis tells him, and as he twists in the tight space to shut it, Louis touches him greedily, palming over his ribcage, his thighs. It feels so fucking amazing that Harry wants to cry, especially since he’s never, _ever_ felt this way when hooking up with alphas. He was always terrified, squirming uncomfortably under their hands, hating the covetous, entitled way they touched his body, like he already belonged to them. He had been wondering if there was something _wrong_ with him, but the way that Louis touches him sets him on fire, makes him feel so _safe._ He wiggles a bit, nuzzling into Louis’s neck, grinding down on whatever he can reach, so ecstatic and relieved that he can _feel_ this way, that he can want someone so badly, without the fear. 

“What do you like?” he asks shyly between heavy, deep kisses, Louis sucking on his tongue every time he gives it to him, groaning around it. “I want...really wanna make you feel good.”

“You’re already making me feel good,” Louis rasps, holding his hips and bucking up into them so that their cocks rub together, separated by two maddening layers of denim. “What are you up for? We can...we can take it slow, yeah? Won’t pressure you for anything more than getting to kiss you...touch you like this, if that’s that you want.” 

Harry shivers, hiding his face in the ditch of Louis’s neck and shoulder, breath shuddering out of him. He’s so _grateful,_ so amazed that it can _be_ like this, that Louis doesn’t expect anything beyond what they’re already doing. He _does_ want more, though, wants it desperately, has fantasized about having Louis under him like this too many times to count. “I’m up for anything,” he admits, feeling brave enough to confess, drunk on the way that Louis’s touching him. “I’ve wanted this...wanted you, actually, specifically...for a long, long time,” he adds, sitting back a bit to track Louis’s reaction. 

Louis makes a sound, wordless and raw, and Harry wishes that he could keep it forever. “Erm,” he squeaks, voice coming out strangled as he leans back, letting Harry rub up his perfect, sexy legs, the broad strokes of his palms moving from knees to thighs. Instead of saying anything, Louis catches one of Harry’s hands and brings it to his lips, sucking his index and middle fingers to the second knuckle before pushing down the rest of the way, his lips soft and wet against Harry’s palm. Harry gasps; his heart stops. He’s never seen or felt anything as fucking glorious as Louis’s hot mouth around his fingers, tongue getting them spit-sloppy before he pulls off in a messy froth. “Been thinking about your hands all night, actually, looking at them...so big,” he mumbles, voice thick. “And they felt so good grabbing my arse…sorta want your fingers up inside it, too. Want you to feel how wet I got just from kissing you,” he adds, and, _Jesus,_ Harry’s gonna come before he even gets his jeans off. 

“Oh, god,” he whimpers, already curling his legs and crawling down onto the floor so that he’s level with Louis’s pelvis, mouth watering at the mere _thought_ of fingering him. “I’d love it so much, Lou, _please_ ,” he begs, eyes wide as Louis stretches to kick off his Vans and unbutton his chinos. He makes a bit of a show of rolling them down his legs, golden hair glinting in the car’s interior light, and Harry can feel himself trembling in anticipation. “You’ll have to tell me how you like it,” Harry reminds him, very nearly salivating as Louis lifts his bum off the seat so that he can struggle out of his pants, which have a noticeable wet spot on them as he peels them away. “I’ve never done this before.” 

“I’ll show you,” Louis says gently, cupping his cock as he shifts around to bring one of his bent knees to his chest, exposing himself. His hole is glistening in slick, twitching and flexing visibly, and Harry’s cock won’t stop blurting precum into his pants at the sight, the filthiest, most fucking gorgeous thing that he’s ever seen. “This okay?” Louis asks, sounding pretty smug because it’s not like Harry isn't observably on the verge of tears over this or anything. 

“You’re so fucking fit,” he marvels, palming up the lithe, muscular underside of Louis’s thigh. “God, stunning...can I touch?” 

“Please,” Louis hisses, dipping his own finger down into his crack and bringing it up to coat his cock, which he’s playing with. Harry drools the second that he sees it, the _perfect_ omega cock, about two inches long and uncut, fat and hard where it’s nestled in his auburn pubes, so pretty, the perfect mouthful. 

“Oh, Louis,” he breathes, reaching up and gently squeezing the whole of his little cock, loving how it fills his palm. “You’re perfect.” 

Louis keens, bucking and rolling his hips, obviously affected by the sight of Harry holding him. “God, you feel good, _Christ,”_ he wheezes, fucking Harry’s fist, filaments of slick glistening on his thighs.

Stroking Louis’s cock with one hand, Harry tentatively reaches up with the other and brushes his index finger over Louis’s hole. Louis’s breath catches, and Harry lets out a small, involuntary moan because, _fuck,_ he’s never felt something so good, so slippery, so soft. He wants to put his mouth there and lick Louis out where he’s wettest, wants to choke on him, wants _Louis_ more than his next breath. There are so _many_ things he wants to do to him that he can hardly keep track of them, so many warring desires, so much hunger swallowing him whole. “Can I suck it? While I finger you?” he decides on, gaze affixed to Louis’s cock, unable to stop imagining it filling his mouth. 

“Ungh, _yes,”_ Louis tells him, legs spreading wider, so fucking lovely and obscene that Harry’s swallowing spit. “Just...get your fingers in me, m’ _dying,_ wanna feel them so badly,” he murmurs, neck straining, sweat glistening lovely and silver on the tendons. “Want you to fuck me.” 

Harry doesn’t waste any more time as he carefully pushes the fingers that Louis sucked on against his hole, stunned at how _easily_ he opens up, his arse tightly clenching him in a solid, silken grip. It’s the hottest thing that he's ever felt, infernal heat against his fingers, wet like a flood. 

He feels cheated, honestly, that fingering open another omega isn’t something that he's expected to like. What is there _not_ to like? What about this isn't perfect? Why the fuck has he been taught his entire life that something so purely _good_ is not only unsavoury but _impossible?_ “Okay?” he asks, pushing deeper, loving the sheen of sweat on Louis’s lower stomach, the spot where all that golden skin disappears under his T-shirt. He wants to press a trail of kisses there. 

“S’perfect,” Louis sighs. “You can give me another. Fuck them in and out...I like friction more than depth,” he explains, arching his back and impaling himself further, pretty little cock twitching and leaking into his pubes. 

Harry does as he’s told, mouth flooding at the smell of Louis’s slick, the musk-salt-spice scent familiar but somehow different from his own. “Bet I can fit your whole cock and balls in my mouth,” he says, eyes fixed to the broad crown, the slit flexing and beading precum. 

Louis laughs helplessly, clutching at Harry’s fingers. “Why don’t you try, then?” he teases, eyelids fluttering before he forces them open, smiling at Harry a little deliriously. “You look really good down there, shoved in my car, wanting so badly to suck me.” 

The tone is more tender than taunting, but it spikes a delicious sort of humiliation in Harry’s gut anyway. He doesn’t _mind_ Louis teasing because he can tell how badly he wants him, how badly he _needs_ his mouth, his fingers. This is mutual, and that changes _everything._ He’s not just the freak omega who’s into other omegas, _Louis,_ who is perfect, wants _him,_ too. Is turned on by him, a mess over him. It’s fucking amazing. 

“Give it to me,” he moans, opening his mouth and pumping his fingers in and out of Louis’s hole, loving the wet, filthy sounds that he's making. 

Louis gently threads his fingers into the back of Harry’s curls and pulls him close, guiding his open, sloppy mouth down onto his hard, little cock. The skin is so warm in his mouth, Louis’s shaft pulsing in the hot suck of his cheeks, pubes coarse against his lips as he swallows him down so _easily_. Harry groans around the mouthful, slutty and hungry over the taste, absolutely _loving_ how small Louis is, how easy it is to fit his lips around the entirety of him and _suck._ He tastes of salt and spice andheat _,_ the musky undertones distinctly omega _,_ a sweetness that's comforting, that feels like home. Harry can’t believe this isn’t something that _every_ omega would choose, the thrill and comfort of _knowing_ exactly how another’s body worked, the tics, the tells. He doesn’t want anything else, not ever. 

Harry doesn’t even realize how deeply he’s finger-fucking Louis until he reaches down between his legs and grabs Harry’s wrist, forearm pressed to his flushed cheek. “Right here,” he rasps, holding Harry in place so that he can’t push much further than a few inches in. “Just...there, bend your fingers, like... _oh, fuck,_ yeah, right there, Hazza, rub it,” he demands, and Harry’s _thrilled,_ mouth so sloppy and eager around Louis’s cock, tongue laving, spit dripping down his chin. Louis makes these _noises_ as Harry shallowly fucks him, three fingers crooked right up against his spot, thumb pressed into his perineum, and _this,_ this is where he belongs, where he should have been all along. 

He keeps it up for a bit, fingers getting puckered and wrinkly in the wetness. He knows Louis’s close by the way that his legs are spasming, the way that he’s rolling his hips, fucking his mouth. He feels insanely powerful for making Louis feel so good, for getting him to keen and gasp like this, voice ruined and reduced to high, breathy wheezes. He's _stunned_ when Louis’s orgasm does hit, the powerful clench around his fingers, the little cock twitching between his plush lips as Louis shoots off, salty and wet, his hole flexing madly, the whole of him reduced to rhythmic, involuntary pulsing.

_Fuck_ , Harry thinks, swallowing, whining, crooking his fingers so that he pushes up against the spot that Louis likes so much. _Jesus fucking Christ._ His throat burns and his eyes are watering as he pulls off to cough once Louis isn’t coming anymore, his fingers still caught in that vice-tight grip. The impossible tightness is a revelation. Louis will slacken up, but as Harry tries to pull out, another twitch will happen, and he’ll hold Harry tight again, the hottest fucking thing, like an earthquake’s aftershocks. Harry might actually cry. 

“Was that good?” he asks, voice raspy, spit and slick all over his chin, and Louis _throws back his head_ to laugh at him. 

“So fucking good, Christ, you’re wonderful…c’mere,” he orders, beckoning with his delicate hands, his loose wrists. Harry wipes his swollen mouth on the back of his hand as Louis’s arse finally relents enough for him to withdraw, and with bleary eyes and trembly limbs, he crawls up onto Louis, only now realizing that his legs are sort of asleep, his knees aching. He doesn’t _care,_ though _,_ he’s elated and drunk on every soft, sweet affirmation that Louis’s whispering against his skin as he kisses his neck, his shoulder, his chin. “It was so good, you were so perfect, took care of me so well,” he praises, petting Harry’s curls, smoothing his hands down his back reassuringly. “Your fucking mouth…best thing. All of you...so fit, Hazza.” 

“ _You’re_ so fit,” Harry mumbles, basking in Louis’s voice, the way that it’s hoarse from moaning. 

“Let me make _you_ feel good now, yeah?” he grins, rolling Harry to his side and wedging him between the seatbacks and his own body, hands all over his waist. 

“You already have,” Harry admits, thinking about Louis’s little cock in his mouth, Louis’s arse pulsing around his fingers like a heartbeat. He’s more than certain that those are the best things he’s ever felt in his whole life. But then he stops being able to think because Louis’s reaching down to cup Harry’s cock and rub it through his jeans, murmuring wordlessly as he feels him out. Harry lets out a low groan and bucks into the pressure. “Fuck,” he whimpers as Louis fumbles with the button of his jeans and pops it open to get a hand inside. 

His grip is warm and careful, luxuriously slow, like he’s touching Harry for himself as much as he’s touching him for any other reason. It all leaves Harry breathless and writhing. “Want you to fuck me some time with this cock,” he murmurs into Harry’s ear, lips ghosting against his temple, sending Harry into a fit of shivers. “So big for an omega.” 

“It’s not…it’s not that big,” Harry reminds him, mewling as Louis teasingly moves his thumb through the sticky mess of precum beading at the tip. “Could I even make you feel anything? Can’t knot you.” 

Louis scoffs, squeezing him. “Bullshit, it would feel _so_ good, like, fucking _amazing_. I showed you where it feels best, yeah? Just a few inches deep, so you don’t need some massive prick.. Plus, I don’t care about knotting, I don’t _like_ knots, I like pretty cocks like yours, pretty boys with pretty fingers, pretty mouths... _that’s_ what turns me on,” he whispers before catching Harry’s swollen lips in a fierce, hungry kiss. Harry melts into it, sighing, pressing closer. Louis’s hand feels so _good_ , so practiced, rubbing over Harry’s length and holding him tightly as he squirms. And, _god,_ just hearing Louis _say_ it like it’s normal, a _preference_ to not want a knot, is so absolving and comforting that he could cry all over again. 

They pull apart with a wet, slick sound. “I don’t think I care about knotting, either. I mean, you’re the only boy I’ve liked...that I’ve ever gotten this wet for,” Harry confesses. 

Louis smiles and presses their brows together, his breath coming out in sweet, laboured huffs on Harry’s lips. “Hearing you say that… _fuck_. God, Harry, you have no fucking idea, like, I’ve wanted you wet for me for so long.” 

Harry whines, twists. He wants Louis to touch him where he’s _slick,_ he wants the fingers that are wrapped around his cock (four inches or so, nothing impressive but certainly bigger than Louis) inside him. “Louis,” he moans, rubbing his bum into the seats, not even caring what a desperate mess he’s turned into. “M’so wet...touch me there.” 

“Fuck,” Louis hisses, tightening his grip and making Harry yelp a bit before carefully inching his fingers around his hip and toward his crack, his movements firm and deliberate. “You know,” he murmurs as he nudges up against his hole, pressing Harry into the seatbacks with his body to still his reflexive jerk at the initial electric contact. “I could fuck _you_ , even with my cock, like, just imagine it,” he says, almost casually, pushing his fingers in slowly, the burn and ache so delicious that Harry cries out, stars exploding behind his eyelids. “Right here,” Louis continues, crooking his fingers at the second joint so that he’s digging into Harry’s upper wall in a slow tease. “My prick would hit you right about here, rub up against you, hold you open…it’d be good, yeah?” 

It’s _beyond_ anything Harry has ever felt before, so nervy and pure and delicious that his face is wet with sweat or tears, he’s not sure. He rubs his swollen lips into Louis’s hair, gasping, backing up onto his fingers. “It’d be perfect,” he slurs, meaning it, _wanting_ it. “Would love your cock in me, would love… _Louis,”_ he sobs, spine tensing before bending deep, his hips rolling against Louis’s in this cramped, hot space as he humps his leg like a dog. “V’never been this slick, not even…not even during my heats,” he admits, face so hot as he presses it into Louis’s jawline, feeling the delicious scrape of his stubble. “You drive me mad.” 

“Jesus, you’re perfect, can’t get enough of you,” Louis growls, shoving Harry’s jeans and pants down around his thighs so that he can free his cock and get a better angle, pump his fingers deeper with long, slow, deliberate strokes inside Harry's tight hole. And Louis’s right _,_ there _is_ something to say for shallower thrusts, an acute, sharp pleasure when he pushes in and rubs right there, right past the rim. Harry _loves_ it, feels like he doesn't give a single fuck about knotting when there’s _this,_ Louis listening to him, tracking his every motion, playing with him. He keeps him close and hungry on his fingertips, a swift, repeated, upward-crooking motion that has Harry riding the pressure and groaning at the intensity of it before he plunges back in, twisting hard, pushing up inside Harry so deep and filthy that he cries out. 

_Fuck,_ Louis’s so good at this, like, he knows _exactly_ how to touch him, fuck him, bring him to the edge without pushing him over, probably because _he’s fingered himself._ He knows how his body works, he’s invested in Harry’s anatomy because it’s his own, and in this moment, it occurs to Harry that sex between omegas has _got_ to be better and more intimate than knotting is, ever, because it’s rooted in shared experience. In sameness. He clutches Louis tightly, so fucking grateful to him for showing him something so _magical._

_“_ Look at you, you love it, love my fingers in you,” Louis marvels before kissing up Harry’s throat, sucking the flushed skin into his mouth right over the thud of his pulse. Harry’s a mess, drooling into Louis’s shirt, arse so fucking wet that his body is making these lewd _snick_ _snick_ sounds as Louis pumps in and out of him. “God, you’re tight right here. No alpha would ever be able to push a knot up in you, you're _made_ for this, for _my_ fingers, _my_ cock,” Louis grinds out, and, _Jesus Christ,_ every word twists deeper into Harry's gut, making him hotter, needier. He _loves_ being told that he’s built for Louis to fuck, and as he blindly fumbles his hungry palms over and between Louis’s thighs,searching for something to grip, he realizes that _Louis’s hard again_ , that he _did that,_ he made this miraculous thing happen. 

“Yours, made for your cock,” he echoes mindlessly, rolling his hips so that he can rub his cock into Louis’s, desperate to feel his spit-wet length against his own, to see the difference in their sizes. But then, horribly, Louis pulls his fingers from where they’ve been filling him, and Harry tries to arch his back to chase the feeling. 

“Shhh, baby, s’okay,” Louis soothes, fingers coming out in a mess of wetness. It’s thick enough to collect, bubbly and viscous from the friction of his fingers, so Louis uses it to wet his hand before smearing it all over Harry’s cock, lubricating it so that Harry’s shining in himself, his own slick very nearly dripping down his shaft. It looks obscene, and Harry stares, wanting so many things that he doesn’t even have names for, wanting _so badly_ to have all of Louis, in him and around him and on top of him and under him. 

But before Harry has time to beg for anything, Louis squeezes his cock, kisses him, and rolls over so that his back is pressed to Harry’s chest. “M’greedy,” he announces in a hoarse voice, pressing his smooth, glorious bum into Harry. “Want you to fuck me.” 

Harry groans, so overwhelmed as his cock nudges up between Louis’s plump, perfect cheeks. He’s burning there, so fucking hot that Harry’s breath catches in his throat, but the heat is _nothing_ compared to the slickness. “You’re so wet,” he breathes, mouth open and panting on Louis’s scapula in awe, getting his shirt spit-damp as he bites down on the fabric. “Absolutely flooded.” 

“I was wet…been wet since we were watching the movie and I was playing with your hair,” Louis confesses, reaching around his back to drag his palm clumsily up Harry’s hip, pulling him closer, finding his arm and curling it around his own waist. “I’ve thought about this...about this exact thing, like, so many times. Can’t believe it’s really happening.” 

“Me fucking you in the backseat of your car?” Harry asks, shoving his hand into the humid drag between their grinding bodies to take his cock in hand and align himself. 

“Not...erm, not exactly that,” Louis chokes, turning his head so that he’s pressing his cheek to Harry’s open mouth, and Harry doesn't even care what Louis thinks about the weird things he wants to do anymore, he just does them because apparently they’ve _both_ wanted this for a ridiculously long time. He licks Louis’s cheekbone, a long, wet stripe from his jaw to the tail of his eye, loving how his stubble scours his tongue, how he tastes sweat-salty, divine. “Just...thought about you fucking me, didn’t care where, s’long as it was you, and... _fuck,”_ he wails, voice cutting out at the end and giving way to a sharp breath when Harry’s repeated attempts at breaching his hole actually work and he pushes his cock-head inside. 

“This okay? Does it hurt?” he whispers anxiously, driven mad by the _heat,_ the slippery-hot feeling of Louis’s hole fluttering around him, stretching to accommodate. 

“Baby, _Christ_ , it’s _so_ perfect, so, _so_ fucking good,” Louis grits out, wiggling his bum and arching his back deeply enough that he swallows another few inches, very nearly taking Harry in his entirety. Harry gets the feeling that he’s moving slowly for _his_ sake rather than his own, that he could _easily_ take all of Harry’s length, but he can tell that Harry’s trembling in overwhelm, clutching at his hand and threading their fingers in a mess of sweat, digging his nails in to keep from coming. 

It’s just so _much_ , is the thing, Harry’s not gonna last, he has only a minute or so left in him before he finishes in the perfect heat of Louis’s body, but he fucks him, fucks him sloppily and desperately, both of them sweat-damp and gasping, skin slapping on every thrust. “Lou,” Harry pants, his saliva dribbling on Louis’s shirt, heat building in his gut. “M’gonna come.” 

“ _Yes,_ fuck, please, fill me up, baby,” Louis babbles, disentangling their hands so that he can reach around and make a fierce, biting fist in Harry’s curls. He tugs hard, and Harry loses it, sobbing into Louis’s shoulder and holding him tightly around the waist as he buries himself deep and comes, pulse after pulse, hot and filthy. 

And he’s never come like this, he’s never whited out and gone breathless and blind, the black of his shut eyes replaced with waves of mind-numbing static. It’s _crazy,_ and when he finally does come to, he somehow feels like he’s been reborn. “Wow,” he rasps, drumming his fingers experimentally on Louis’s ribs, making sure that he’s still there. “That was…it was, god, it was a lot.” 

Louis giggles, shifting so that Harry’s cock slides out in a mess of come and slick, making them both yelp. “Hopefully the good sort of a lot?” he asks, and Harry nods rapidly, digging his chin into Louis’s back. 

“Holy shit, it was the best, like, I’ve never even come _close_ to feeling like that…even when I watch porn or make myself hold on and wank for hours, it never feels like this,” he admits, gingerly tucking himself back into his pants as Louis rolls over to face him. His cock feels overly sensitive as it shrinks into his foreskin, hot and electric but _prettier,_ somehow, since it was in Louis's arse, the prettiest thing of all. 

Louis sighs, wrapping his arms around Harry and pulling him close, his half-hard cock digging into Harry’s stomach. “You want me to make you come again?” Harry asks shyly, sneaking a trembling hand down between them. 

Louis smiles, shakes his head. “Not yet, too sensitive...back home, though, if you want. To do it all again, I mean.” 

He sounds worried, but he doesn’t need to be. Harry cannot _wait_ to have him again. “Of course I want to,” he says eagerly, kissing Louis’s chin. “All the time.” 

“M’so happy you’re into it. If m’honest, I was a bit worried. I like you so much, I wanted…want it to be really good for you. S’hard when you’re jammed into the back of a Vauxhall in a cinema carpark,” Louis admits. 

Harry’s laugh bubbles out of him in a gurgle; he’s so giddy, such a mess, so _happy_ to be here against Louis, feeling the thud of his heartbeat gradually slow. “Wouldn’t have mattered where it was,” he confesses shyly. “You don’t have, like, a single thing to worry about because I like _you_. You didn’t have to seduce me, I was already here.” 

Louis is quiet as he tucks a curl behind Harry’s ear. It’s not quite long enough, though, so it springs back into place, prompting Louis to dip down and kiss Harry instead. “ I love your hair,” he whispers fiercely as he pulls away, burying his face in it. “And the birthmark on your wrist, your dimples, the way you smell, god, I love so many things about you, Haz,” he tells him, and Harry’s heart could fucking burst. 

He’s wiping tears against the cotton of Louis’s T-shirt as he murmurs, “Yeah, but do you love me? Because I love you, have done since...oh, _Lou,”_ he cries out, suddenly ashamed. Not about thinking an omega is hot, for once, but in thinking that there was anything wrong or abnormal or shameful about thinking an omega is hot in the first place. Somehow, after _actually_ having sex and experiencing the raw, messy truth of it, he feels foolish. “I would have done something sooner, I dunno, kissed you, _something._ But I...I was stupid, thought you’d never want me, that it would never work because we’re both…you know.”

“Baby,” Louis sighs, thumbing away his tears before wiping his own into Harry’s hair. Harry squirms up so that he can throw his arms around Louis’s shoulders, crush him close, _care_ for him. Because there are no designated roles for this, no _rules._ They're making it up as they go along, and it’s so refreshingly uncharted that Harry can relax into the feeling of not knowing, into the trembly, hot way that his stomach turns over as Louis says, “I’ve _always_ wanted you, always loved you. And if…fuck, if I had known that you’d be open to something with me, I’d’ve locked us in an accessible toilet cubicle together a lot sooner.” 

Harry giggles sort of frantically, his fingers in Louis’s hair, nails razing against his scalp. “To many more locked loo cubicles,” he announces, holding up an imaginary glass with a weak, shaky hand. He’s trembling, his own come is drying in his pants, and Louis’s come is all over his thighs, his fingers, almost like a baptism, but he’s _so,_ so fucking happy that he could fall apart right here, get swept away in a mess of their combined tears, if he let himself. “To sneaking around with you, fucking you, messing up everything we’re supposed to be doing, to breaking dumb rules, yeah?” 

Louis curls his fingers to his palm and brings his fist to his lips to kiss it. “To making new rules, my love.” 


End file.
